The End is only the Beginning
by MarryEllenJunior
Summary: Hey! This popped up in my mind and well I thought to upload it. It is about a young Assassin in an unknown future, who questions the meaning of th Creed, while it seems that past is hunting him. ALtair, Connor and Haytham are part of this story, sadly no Ezio. I hope you enjoy it and tell me please everything you like and don't like to improve my writing skills.


Hello guys! Yes, a new story from/by/of me/mine? Seriously your language is damn confusing sometimes. That is probably also the reason you will find tons of failures ;_;, I mean grammatical. And although there are books by a so called Oliver Bowden, I seriously do not care for them. I never read them actually, none of them, because … I had no money XD. Okay that is not the exact reason, but whatever. It just popped up in my mind and did not let me sleep at all ;_;. So yes here it is! One part is OOC, I think you realise it quickly ;-). Just tell me if you like it or not. Oh yes, Altair's mother is in my story Christian, so she speaks syriac not arabic, but I think that's alright, isn't it?

***leaving a package of cookies***

Critic is most appreciate! I want to improve my writing style so please tell me all the good and (hopefully not many) bad things you find here ^^

love 3333333

If you just have five minutes to think about what you have to do. And that one wrong step leads to death, you mostly think about how on earth you came into that situation. You think about your life that was so damn easy until now, a whole adventure even. You think about all the moments you shared with people you liked and loved. You think about the moments that had probably lead to this situation. And then you just breath to calm down. You look on your leg, one deeply wounded, blood coming out as if you were sqeezing a ketchup bottle, just darker and stickier. You feel your right arm getting numb because there is also a wound you did not cover yet. And then you look on the ground and on the three people who lay there pale and dead. And you breath. But you don't think, you just stare into the eyes of people you liked. And you breath again so loud you have the feeling you wake up the whole wood including the corpses. But the corpses stay silent. And I turn myself right to the third corpse. The corpse I couldn't save. The corpse that was the reason the others are dead. The corpse that made me to a murderer.

It is the corpse of a young girl, maybe fourteen, or sixteen years old. Her blue eyes stare on the snow and her blond hair covers the whole in her forehead. I am glad for that. I seriously am. The back of her head is not there anymore and I can see parts fo her brain, rosa and fleshy spread all over the snow. Her arms are outstretched as if she wanted to hold someone. She looks desperated. And she was desperated in the moment of her death. She looks like a baby, curling up her knees almost touching her little nose, her thin face. She looks so fragile like a porcelain-dolly. I look at her right arm that is so pale you need time to discover it in the deep snow. My breathing clings in my ears. I look at her little hand, white, just the deep blue veins give you a hint of flesh. But then I notice something. Something shiny, silvery maybe. Carefully I come near to her. Her little, long, tender fingers cover it up. But if I recognize right it looks like...

A cross. There is a cross in her little hand. I crouch right before her, touching her blond hair, tying it up behind her little ear, seeing the whole in her forehead, black and tiny, you might think it is a birthmark. She does not react. She is still like the snow when it falls on the ground. No noise. Nothing. When I touch her lids, I realise how soft her skin is. Soft like a pillow. And then I close her eyes and hope at that very moment that everything is just a horrible dream and I wake up and everything is alright and my arm and leg are not wounded and my comrades are not dead because of me and their blood is not covering my clothes, make it heavier and fills the air with the taste of iron.

But sadly nothing of this is a dream but fucking reality.

"Rest in peace," I murmur softly to the sleeping girl, to the dead girl, dead because I was a pitiful coward. A damn idiot. And then and I have no idea why I am doing this I take the cross out of her little hand. It is beautiful it seriously is. It is silver but in the middle there is something blue in it. I've never seen something like this before. I put it in my pocket and breath again. It is awful to stand up because of my leg. I am thankful that if you are hurt your body just concentrates on one wound not both. I think it would kill me, the pain. Strangely I start to shiver. I go to the two bodies, a little bit away of the girl. My dead comrades. Finn and Matthew. Brothers. And dead. Because I killed them. I blink at them but their eyes stay silent. I don't crouch before them to give them piece and rest. I don't know why...

At least it is not my left arm that is injured, so I take the bag of the ground and somehow throw it over my shoulder. And there I stand. No one is here just me and the dead.

And I have no idea what to do. If I should go back, to the main center...but what on earth shall I say? Tell them the truth? Would they even listen? Or immediately send me to the wall where I get shot, because I broke the law? Or shall I tell them a lie, telling them, the little girl attacked us, wanted to kill us. I turn back to her. I can't do this. I can't accuse her of something she hasn't done. I am not a liar. And I will never be a coward again. Never. That one time was enough. So what option do I have? I look around, thinking about a life in the woods.

I would be dead in three days.

Then there is just the option of going back and hoping they saw it as a kind of...

The will kill me. Just how my comrades killed the girl. They won't even listen. Because I broke the law. To never kill a man of your brotherhood because that means betrayal, what means enemy, what leads to Templar and Templars are the worst, even though they are little girls of the age of fourteen.

So I have two options with the same outcome: death. Suddenly I don't feel my legs anymore and fall into the snow. My dead comrades are staring at me with their dead, accusing eyes. I feel weak. I can't walk neither back nor forward, I will lay here and wait for death. Maybe that's the best way of dying. Just lay down and sleep for a while in the cold snow and when they find us we all will be dead and no one declares me as a betrayer of the brotherhood and calls my brother to tell him that he has to hunt me down now like a Templar. Because that is exactly what happens if they find me..._alive_. I lay my head right next to Matthew's so I see the girl. The snow is soothing somehow. I like it. The girl. She lived in the woods, even though nothing really grows here because of the plastic everywhere and the winters are 7 months full of acid rain and snow you can't eat because it is poisoned. Then how did she live here? Alone? Or with someone else? How do the Templars live here for decades? How can that be? My shivering stops and I am glad for it. I am tired. I blink twice. The last thing I see is the dead, little dolly.

Connor

"The best chief is not the one who persuades people to his point of view. It is instead the one in whose presence most people find it easiest to arrive at the truth."

Connor's head feels as if it exploded every second. He is thankful it is spring and not winter so he doesn't have to climb the trees. He should have known better than this. Attacking a ford all by himself is not the easiest thing you can do. He stands still, holds his hand on a tree, breathing out. This last thinking...it just sounded like ...his father. Yes, his father would have commended his behaviour as the most foolish idea of the century, next to that his father would have called Connor as king of the fools and had probably looked at him, amused and annoyed at the same time. He closes his eyes and puts his head against the warm bark of the tree. It is dawning, Connor can feel the tickling sunbeams on his back. If just his head would not hurt so awful he can't have one clear thought. He really should have known better. This damn redcoat he hadn't expected and the next moment he's seen nothing than bright stars shimmering before his eyes. Has he already lost his red pursuers? Hopefully, because right now he needs sleep. Nothing than restful sleep and then he can return back into this crazy world of battles, independence and whatever. This pain will drive him crazy. He slowly crouches and then just lay on the grass, breathing out and calming down as...

"You seriously attacked a bunch of redcoats all by yourself...boy?"

No, Connor thought. Not now. Just sleep, it is a dream. But the hard kick of boots into his stomach made clear that no one else than his not very beloved father stands right in front of him.

"How did you find me?"

"I followed the path of deads, son." Connor opens one eye and then sits up, still holding his aching forehead.

"You mean you killed my pursuers?"

He can feel his father's grin.

"You have to thank me, it were at least about twenty men."

"You killed."

"Not all of them."

He just wants to sleep. Could his father not go back to...where ever he just came from?

But then he feels a hand that tugs him up roughly and a moment later he stands. His stomach dances a dance he doesn't know and doesn't feel very good. The touch of his father's hand is over.

"We have to go," Haytham Kenway murmurs a little bit too serious.

"What is it?"

The older man turns to him.

"Because I did not kill all of them and when they wake up their only aim will be our death," a short pause. "A horrible death I guess."

So he goes off and Connor follows him trying to ignore this aching pain and the strange urge to vomit.

After - Connor has the feeling they walked about three years- a while his father suddenly leans on a tree. The young man is confused.

"Why do we stop?"

His father shrugs.

"Well I guess because I think we might need a rest, or do you want to go on?"

The younger man does not reply but sits himself on the ground right before a tree, leaning his terrible head again on the warm bark. Piece is filling his veins and he closes his eyes.

"Is it because you are an Assassin or just your youth that brings you to this crazy idea fighting against an army of well trained redcoats?"

Connor smiles.

"As if you didn't do it."

"Ah", the British Accent of his father is somehow very soothing. "I understand. It is because you are young, an Assassin and..." but the grown man could not go further.

"...because I am a fool, right?"

There is a soft chuckle and the young man of twenty listens to the footsteps that come right into his direction. He knows his father stands in front of him, he feels his stare.

"You know boy, maybe you should change your job. Ever thought about that?"

"I truly must look half dead that you seem to care about my future. And shut up. I need sleep." He says it harsher than originally meant but this headache is unbelievable.

"You know maybe you should marry, settle down, do something useful. Always this fighting, killing people, running away. You are twenty. You know what I did in your age?"

"Talking as much as you do now?"

Again a chuckle but this time a little bit louder.

"You seem to get a sense of humour son. No. I was indeed married, had wife and children and a normal life. Believe me it is the most pleasant thing you ever experience."

Suddenly Connor opens his eyes. Everything looks obliterate. He can't really focus on anything.

"You've said that earlier...," he murmurs not knowing exactly why. His father never tells stories twice. An odd feeling places itself in his stomach.

"And I am not twenty..."

The older man crouches. A sad smile on his lips.

"That's true Connor. You are not twenty and I am long dead."

The young man blinks, the brown eyes staring into his father's face.

The pain gets heavier.

"It is time to wake up, Connor."

Altair

He loves it to wake up early in the morning just before it dawns and to watch the believers pray while the sun rises. Although he does not believe he likes the soft murmering, sounding like purling water, the voice of the muezzin waking up the village. He does not know how to pray, his father died before he could or wanted to teach him and Al Mualim, his mentor, does not believe in Allah. And his mother? Altair smiles while he dresses himself up. He does not know his mother very well but he knows that she is a Christian, so she probably knows how to pray in the Christian way but not the islamic. When he thinks about it. He has no idea how Christians pray. He should ask her one day. It is warm outside, a soft wind blows over his face and for a moment he breaths in the upcoming day. The sand is still cold but his feet will get used to it. He finds the believers quickly on their normal place: it is a plateau, right before the strong castle of Masyaf. More than fourty men stand there, their hands hold up high, their eyes closed, almost singing words for their God and then falling on their knees as if they had done a horrible crime. Altair hides himself behind a tree, watching carefully, while his head keeps asking: where is their God? And why does He not come down to help them? Why does He let us alone?

"Em? (Mother) "

"Ee? (Yes)"

It is late in the night. They are eating bred and olives with cheese. He is so hungry. Today they had trained non stop and some of them even became unconscious but Al Mualim went on. He is an ambitious old man.

"Where is the difference between Allah and your God?"

The brown eyes of his mother look at him for a moment.

"There is no difference. Why do you ask?"

The young boy shrugs.

"Because you don't pray as the men outside in the morning. Why do you pray different if your God is the same?"

His mother smiles. He hasn't seen his mother smiling since a while. He is glad he made her happy.

Sosamma leans herself back in the chair.

"There is a little difference."

Altair waits.

His mother takes a piece of bred and lay cheese on it. "We Christians believe in Jesus who was the son of Allah."

"Allah had a son?"

The smile of his mother grows.

"Ee. And before his son there were prophets and these prophets talked about a so called "Messias" who would come to us free all people and would bring heaven to earth."

There is a while silence.

"And the muslims?"

"They believe Muhammad is the Messias. And the jews still wait for him. But Jesus was a jew and Muhammad also believes of Jesus as a prophet. And you can call him God, Allah or Yahwe it doesn't matter. It is always our Father who takes care of us."

"And Jesus is the Messias?"

His mother nods.

"But did not bring heaven to earth, didn't he?"

The older woman sighs deeply.

"Ram shookh breekha. (Good night)"

"Allah Minookh. (Good night)"

The next morning all his bones feel as if they are broken. Why does Al Mualum be so cruel sometimes? Just as he wants to vanish through the door his mother stops him.

"Quedamtookh Brikhta. (Good morning)"

Altair answers back.

"Kyool yoomanakh breekhe. (Good morning)"

"When you come back bring me some of these breads of Fatima. About three, please."

"Push um shena, (Goodbye)" the young boy says.

"Push um shena, (Goodbye)" his mother replies softly.

Al Mualim waits for him at the entrance of the castle. Right behind him is a group of boys, who immediately stops talking as he greets his mentor. The old man nods at him and he goes into the group, right next to a boy that stares at him. He does not say anything. And the others as well. Everyone waits until Al Mualim would give them a sign to move. More and more boys arrive, all greeting the mentor and stand in line. It is long after dawn as finally a young man arrives, an older one, with his younger brother right next to him. Both bow down, the older one of them has to be about 16 years old.

"Where have you been?," Al Mualim aks the older one.

"Praying," is the response of the young man. Altair analyzes him. He has never seen that young man praying down at the plateau. But today he had no time to watch because his mother had talked to him.

"Praying?," Al Mualim repeats. There is a moment where no one knows what happens next. Then the old man sighs. "Go Malik. I will talk to you father." Malik still bowing answers dry.

"My father died tonight and my mother is also feverish. That is the reason I prayed Mentor."

Silence.

"Go back and bury your father before the sun dawns, take your brother with you. As-salāmu ʿalaikum ."

The brothers answer back.

"U aleikum assalaam ." And they both go back the way they just came from.

Although he doesn't know the young man, neither his brother Altair can not really concentrate this day, all his thinking is about the man Malik and his brother. Why was he praying after his father had died?

"Surely because his mother is a Christian," he listens to the talk of a boy in his age, about fourteen years whispering to a group of boys all sitting around him. Altair knows him. He knows him very well: Abass. A boy that is so...Altair has no real word to describe it, but he does not like Abass.

"But isn't Altair's mother not also a Christian? And she still lives?"

An older boy, in the age of Malik whispers. "How can Al Mualim allow Christians to be together with Moslems? That is against Allah's will."

There is a short pause where most of the boys just shake their heads in disbelief.

"Maybe Allah also punishes Altair's mother, who knows?"

That is again Abass. Altair breaths in and out. He wants to hit Abass painfully but Al Mualim said that those who answer immediately with fists are not more worth than scum. So he remains silent. But one day, he thinks. One day I will hurt him badly.

"Altair? What is going on your mind?"

Al Mualim sits next to him. The boy can smell the heavy incense. It always calms him down.

"Mentor, may I ask you something?"

"Everything boy."

Altair looks up at the starring blue sky then on his feet.

"Why did the man pray?"

"You mean Malik?"

Altair nods.

"Yes Mentor."

Al Mualim sighs deeply just like his mother yesterday. It seems he asks too many questions that are uncomfortable to answer.

"So the soul of his father would rest in peace."

Altair watches a spider walking on its many legs on the wall right to his hand- there it stays for a moment – then carefully walks on his fingers. Its touching is tickling. He lays it on the ground while he feels the stare of his mentor.

"Did that answer your question?"

The spider seems to like him, it doesn't want to get off his hand. Altair smiles. Finally the spider gets off him and vanishes into the sand. He does not answer.

"I don't think I answered your question. Why do you want to know it? You know there is no God, don't you?"

"Then why do people believe, mentor?"

"Because they are weak Altair. All kind of affection is in fact weakness. Do you understand that?"

The boy nods again.

"Yes, mentor."

Haytham

As Edward Kenway arrives in the hall, his wife Tessa immediately welcomes him softly with a kiss. "Dinner is on the table," she whispers and her husband smiles. "Perfect, I could eat a horse." Tessa Kenway laughs and shakes her head. "I hope it tastes at last, can you get Haytham? He is in his room, I guess." The blond man nods and slowly walks upstairs to his son's room.

"Haytham?," he asks and knocks on the door. There is no answer. The father knits his brows, and knocks again. "Haytham?," he asks again, this time a little bit louder. Still no answer. Is his son asleep? Carefully he opens the squieking door. The room is so tidied up a stranger would never have thought of a seven years old boy living here. Edward scans every centimeter with his blue eyes. As long as he can see clearly (and he is not that old) there is no one in this room. Then he notices something. The window is open. A cold wind blows over his face and the curtains wave softly. Isn't it a little bit too cold to open the window? The older man walks towards the open glass as in that very moment a little hand appears, followed by another one and then finally a young boy with wild black hair and big blue eyes squeezes through the window. The child is completely covered in mud and if Edward hadn't known better he wouldn't have recognized his own son. Haytham hasn't seen him yet and tries to get off the sticky filth of his clothes, that surely were once very expensive and beautiful before the boy decided to ruin them. His father grins. He hatches a plan and slowly he creeps up on the young boy that is still unaware of the older Kenway. Just inches away he suddenly touches his son's shoulders and Haytham starts to scream and jumps almost again out of the window. Edward Kenway roars with laughter while his son breaths loud and heavy, the big blue eyes opened in shock and terror. Finally both calm down, although the grown man still grins bright and shiny. The black haired boy starts to smile a little bit.

"Haytham, where have you been?"

His son does not answer.

"Am I too late for dinner?"

The older one sighs loudly. "Not yet, but if you don't hurry up..." "Alright..." And with that Haytham rushes out of the room without paying anymore attention to his father.

Tessa and Jenny Kenway look both very confused as the head of the house arrives.

"Where have you been?," the older one, Tessa, asks the second the two gets seated. Edward drinks a little bit of the beer that stands in front of him.

"Well...Haytham," and he looks at his son, that still has little croutons of mud in his hair and on his neck. The big blue eyes become begging.

"...was asleep," he ends his sentence. Jenny, Edward's daughter, raises her eyebrows but doesn't say anything.

After dinner Tessa and Jenny go into the living room but as Edward wants to follow them he sees that Haytham hasn't moved from his chair yet. As he looks at him he realises the dark rings under the blue eyes. "Tired?," the father asks the young child that again almost jumped from the chair and looks at him with puffy eyes. "Ahumm...," the boy murmurs. Edward Kenway sighs and stretches out his hand. "Come on little eagle I bring you to bed, hmm?"

The soft, little hand of Haytham gets his and together they walk back into the boy's tidy room. Edward realises this time the smell, as if someone hasn't been here at least for weeks. He watches his son immediately crawling into his bed and closing his eyes. The older one gets a chair and sits next to him.

"Haytham?," he asks softly into the dark. He son doesn't reply but Edward is sure he is still awake.

"Might you tell me where you go, when you are not here?"

Still no answer. And after a while he just lay down next to his son. His son smells after the forest and burnt wood. Haytham snuggles his face down into his shoulder. The breathing of the child tickles his skin. And a moment later Edward Kenway falls asleep, his face buried in the dark hair of his son.

The next morning the older man yearns, turns himself and falls out of the bed. Since when is his bed that small? And where is Tessa? His blue eyes blink. This room, he thinks. Is not my room.

Suddenly he is completely awake. He is in the room of his son, he realises and the memory of yesterday pops up in his mind. Still sitting on the ground he turns his head to the bed, that is of course ...empty. Edward holds his forehead as he listens to a click and Tessa, his wife, stands in the door.

"Edward? What are you doing on the ground?"

He shakes his head and stands up.

"Tessa? Where is Haytham?"

She opens her eyes in horror.

"Isn't he here?"

"Our Father, who art in Heaven,  
Hallowed be Thy Name.  
Thy Kingdom come,  
Thy will be done,  
On earth as it is in Heaven.  
Give us this day our daily bread.  
And forgive us our debts,  
As we forgive our debtors.  
And do not lead us into temptation,  
But deliver us from the evil one. Amen."

Haythams murmurs these words with the rest of the congregation, praying to the Lord and hopes his father was not awake yet. Because if he was...That doesn't matter now, he thinks. Right now just matters the mess. He sits in the last raw with the orphans and listens to the soft voice of Father McGowan. During the administration of the Eucharist Thomas prodes him softly.

"Can I have yours too? I am so hungry." Haytham nods and Thomas grins wide. Father McGow smiles friendly at him as he gives him a little piece of bred. Meanwhile the altar boys spread everywhere the incense. When they sit again, he gives Thomas the piece of bred. The orphan thanks, breaks it in two pieces and gives Haytham one of it back. The two boys grin and wait till everyone is seated again. The heavy smell of incense gets Haytham tired. He leans on Thomas shoulder while the liturgy of the priest and the singing of the congregation. As the priest says loud and clear: "The Lord bless and keep you," he closes his eyes for a moment and thanks God, says goodbye to Thomas and then rushes out of the door and runs back home.

No one expects him at the gate and he is glad for that. Maybe his father truly did not realise he was away for a while. He climbs the wall to his window, but stops right before it. It is open although he left his home through the door. Panic fills suddenly his veins and he hangs there and has no idea what to do. He listens carefully if anything moves or talks in his room but he can hear nothing. Maybe father just stood up and thinks he is somewhere-

At that very moment he feels two big, strong hands taking his and he gets tugged through the open window. Haythams was never that frightened as in that very moment and he screams as he falls onto the floor of his room. He looks up and his blue eyes detect a grown and beautiful woman in her thirties, the black hair tidied back, the blue eyes staring at him cold and furious. Right next to her, a blond, handsome man in his fourties stares at him with shining blue eyes, his face pale with a little beard. Both have no mouth but a thin line and you can feel they will explode every second like a ticking bomb. Haytham decides to stay on the ground and just suffer this whole procedure.

"Where have you been?," his parents ask low, very low, almost whisper, but in a very serious way. The young boy stays silent. He hopes it was rhetorical. He really does hope.

"Where have you been?," Tessa asks again, her voice so high it clings in Haytham's his head is only chaos full with ideas and good lies and whatsoever but nothing leaves his mouth. He is probably too shocked to say something. His mother sighs deeply. There is a while silence and then finally Edward Kenway says dry: "Stand up, Haytham. And tell me where you have been." The child looks at his father, who looks suddenly so old and tired. Haytham bites his lip so hard, he tastes blood. Slowly, very slowly he stands up, but looks at his feet. His shoes are awfully dirty and he himself feels dirty. What has he done?

"Haytham?," his father asks again low and dry. The young boy swallows hardly. It doesn't make sense to keep silent. He has to the tell the truth.

"I've been at church."

"What?," his father answers and Haytham sees his face getting so pale, the older Kenways looks like a ghost. His parents stand there shocked and totally startled. Haytham goes one step back. "I...I...-" but he can't say anything because he feels a hand that slaps him fiercely and hardly and his cheek burns horrible, while his whole face has turned to the left. Edward Kenway breaths heavy.

There is a terrifying silence, where nothing than the breathing of father and son could be heard. He can't believe what just happened, but his burning cheek brings him back to reality. His father has slapped him. Just like that. As if he was a kitchen boy, who had burned the meal. This feeling of being dirty fills every cell in his body. He is dirty and he has disappointed his parents. How stupid he is.

Tessa Kenway shakes her head and goes to the window. Haytham hears a little "click" and he feels the dress of his mother touching his hand as she goes back to her husband, who still did not say one word but stares at his son. Finally both leave him alone in his despicing room. He never wanted to cry so badly.

He stays in his room for three days, sitting in his bed and doing nothing than going from time to time into the bathroom to get something to drink. He feels too awful to eat something. On his fourth day he hears a soft knocking and his mother comes into his room. "Haytham?," she asks softly, but he pretends to sleep. "You come down for breakfast? Clara made you cake. Do you come down?" The boy doesn't say anything. Tessa waits a while but then leaves him again.

On the fifth day his sister came and was as successful as his mother. And finally as he was praying the "The Lord is my Shepherd" his father stands in his door, looking tired and sick. The boy just looks at him for a second and immediately hides himself under his sheet. He knows it is childish and stupid, but a strange fear floods his body every time he thinks about his father. He hopes the older Kenway will leave him soon, because he can't breath really. Then he listens to the footsteps of the grown man, that come to the direction of his bed. Haytham feels the matress going down and freezes in his position as a big hand lands on his head. "Haytham? Don't you want to get out of the sheet? Isn't it a little bit hot under there?" The child stays silent. He will not surrender. But it really is hot here inside, seriously and he can't breath at all. So he lifts the sheet a little bit and feels a relief as fresh air enters and he can breath again. The hand still lay onto his head.

"Haytham. You know I did not mean what I did?"

"Then what did you mean?," the sons whispers.

A short silence.

"What?," his father asks. "I don't understand one word, you sound like a-" Sighing Haythams ducks under the hand of his father and gets out of the sheet. Edward Kenway almost smiles as he sees his son getting out, the black, wild hair standing up in every direction, the blue eyes big and puffy at the same time. His child looks adorable sweet.

"I said: what did you mean?," Haytham repeats.

Edward sighs. "I am sorry, truly sorry for what I have done." "But why did you do it?", the child asks again and this time he looks at his father. The older Kenway bites his lip. He doesn't know what to say. But he decides for the truth. "I was very, very furious, because..." His son lay his head to the right. "Because I was afraid something would happen to you. Do you have an idea what could-" "But nothing-" "That doesn't matter, Haytham. Something could have happened. And do you have an idea how I had felt then? You are my child. Do you understand that?" Haytham slips a little closer to his father. "Is that the reason..." Edward shakes his head. "No. That is not the reason I hit you. The reason was much more egoistic." He looks into his son's eyes that are so much like his own. "You know what I was?" The young boy blinks. Slowly very slowly he opens his mouth. "You...you are...an Assassin?" "I _was_ one Haytham. I was. And although I am not one any more, I am still not very fond of the church...because..." The big eyes of his son gets expecting. "Because back in time, church was somehow my biggest enemy." The blue eyes look confused. "Church? Your enemy?" The ex-Assassin sighs. Seriously he has no idea how to explain it. "Do you know who the enemies of the Assassins are?" His son nods: "The Templars. Those, who seek control and wants to slave mankind." Edward chuckles dry. "Has Jenny told you that?" There is no answer. "I seriously have to talk with your sister one day. I think her mother took her Assassin-life a little bit too serious." The older Kenway flicks. "Whatever. Yes, the Templars. And Templars often...or better always have something to do with church and...that is the reason I hit you. Because the church had taken so much from me...I." He buries his face in his hands. "I am an idiot. You forgive me?" "Probably..." is the answer of his son. Edward stares at him. "What do you want from me?" Haytham shrugs. "I don't know, but I am quite sure I will find something." The Ex-Assassin rolls his eyes around. "You know, in fact you behave just as mysterious as an Assassin." Haytham grins. Then suddenly his father gets him and starts to tickle his son, who has to laugh so hard, tears are almost leaving his eyes.


End file.
